The Scarlet Ballgown
by Jade Cadello
Summary: Set sometime during the height of his career, this case was one of such delicacy and infamy that, before now, I hardly dared record it to paper. But, as my days grow shorter, I, Dr. John Watson, feel somewhat obliged to put pen to paper to chronicle this last event of such a partnership as never existed on this earth before or since: The Woman, and The Detective.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue: The Biographer**

I have recorded elsewhere the events of my dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes', final case, entitled: the final problem. However, as my days grow ever shorter and memory becomes less and less precise I find myself drawn back to my humble desk, my hand drifting to my pen and my drawer slipping open to reveal a stack of blank paper.

The reason this particular case has not reached the public eye before now has nothing to do with any hesitation on my part to record its events and everything to do with Holmes' own disinclination to publicity and personal questions. Perhaps it is the latter which has so far dissuaded me from ever inscribing this case, for though I have often wheedled permission from him to write of his adventures, I have never sought his consent for this particular narrative. For I know the public well enough to know that, should this story have ever reached the newspaper during his lifetime, Mr. Holmes would no doubt have been bombarded with questions that he would certainly wish to be left alone.

I myself must ask the overzealous reader to refrain from sending me any letters concerning the personal life of the late Sherlock Holmes, for though I might have broken his confidence in revealing this case, I shall do no more. And, in any case, had I been asked to recount the personal life of Holmes, I would be pressed indeed to come up with another word besides solitary. There is not much in the way of information to be found in that particular line of questions.

I am old, old and grey with the years and, perhaps due to my less active and more sedentary frame, have not aged quite so well as my dear friend, but it seems I am destined to live the longer and as such I shall take full advantage of the opportunity to impress upon my readers the full extent of Holms' powers in perhaps his most tangled and at the same time his most electrifying case I have ever had the fortune of observing. It is also a most singular occurrence as it is the only case of which I know where Holmes conspired with a woman in his plans, returning to the late Irene Adler in his hunt.

Secondary characters aside, the case in itself was one of immense importance to the British people, even as it was unknown to most of England during its duration. That was, I believe, the way Holmes wished it, and had he lived in a perfect world, I believe that was the way he would have wished all but the most intellectually challenging of his cases to be. Therefore, it is with my sincere apology to the memory of Holmes and a hearty thanks to my dedicated readers that I present to you the case of the scarlet ball gown with the hope that it will further the reputation of a great man, a great detective, and a great friend.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1: An Unexpected Visitor**

I had just finished that morning's edition of _The Strand_ when a sharp knock interrupted my reading. I was used to the odd visitors by this time, for any associate of Holmes knows that his clients operate on no fixed schedule. However, I was not used to visitors coming as early as this: barely after the crack of dawn when no English gentleman but myself would dare to brave the dismal day.

And yet there the knock was again, defiant of any idea I might have formed about Londoners. I had already shut my newspaper and was beginning to make my way towards the door when Holmes himself came bursting out of his bedroom, dressed only in his tattered bath robe with his aesthetic face arranged in what may liberally be described as the height of tension. I watched, amazed, as he ran to the door, calling behind him:

"Watson, my good man, put a kettle on the stove there! Good! And try your best to look presentable, one does try to appear proper when it is a well-to-do woman who is arriving on one's doorstep."

It was not so far into my association with Holmes that his deductions had ceased to amaze me, and so it was with a sense of bemused astonishment that, as Holmes had predicted, I saw a high-class woman's subtly lavender skirts revealed in the doorframe.

But my astonishment at Holmes' deduction paled beside the outright incredulity I felt at the sight of the woman's face. She was beautiful, an exotic-looking Englishwoman with flowing brown hair, honeyed skin, and intelligent brown eyes. But it was not her beauty that had me reeling back in my armchair, no, for I recognized her face. I recognized the slightly ironic set to her lips and the steel will showing behind her eyes.

"My dear Ms. Adler, or is it your husband's name? Come in please." Holmes said, seeming not in the least out of sorts at her appearance. Indeed, he treated her as if they had long held some standing meeting date that was just now being fulfilled.

"I thank you, Mr. Holmes. It is Ms. Adler now."

Her voice was just as I remembered it: calm, cool, very much a female version of Holms' own, but without the scientifically impersonal overtones I knew of him.

Ever the Victorian gentleman, Holmes led Ms. Adler to the second chair by the fire, taking the third for himself only after she was seated.

"Watson! You're slipping man. I asked if you could put the kettle on, and yet there you sit as if someone had whacked you over the head with an iron." Holmes exclaimed, noticing the kettle that sat idle on the sideboard. He stood up once again, busying his long-fingered hands with settling the pot over the flames that danced in the hearth. The familiar sound of water sloshing in the kettle woke me and I managed to ask:

"Ms. Adler! I thought we had seen the last of you some years ago! And Holmes, how could you possibly have known that it would be a woman of high status that would be visiting us?" Holmes sighed audibly, sitting once again in his armchair and perching his face languidly upon his steepled fingers.

"Simple, Watson. I heard the wheels of a carriage outside, smooth and fairly quiet, so I deduce a private carriage from a wealthy family. It must belong to the person who rides inside, for she commands the driver to a faster pace than I think most moral men would dare with another man's property. As for how I knew it was a she and not a he, that was inferred simply from the volume of the knock upon the door; a man would never have knocked so daintily."

He pulled out his pipe from an inner pocket of his robe, lighting it and puffing luxuriously on the thick smoke.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asked suddenly, turning to Ms. Adler.

She shook her head slightly, smiling;

"It seems that you, at least, Mr. Holmes, have remained constant. Time may alter all else, but you shall stay the same," said she incongruently, and a bit morosely.

Holmes stared at her, eyes narrowed, his brows furrowed in thought. I could tell that this statement had provided him with a veritable goldmine of information about our new client and, while I could not see any special significance in it, I was sure Holmes would soon be spouting her biography. I was not disappointed.


End file.
